You've Always Counted
by runyoucleverboyandremember4321
Summary: Molly Hooper has been Sherlock's pathologist from the moment he stepped into the morgue. Does she consider them friends? In her book, yes. She's catered to his every whim and has been there in times of need. But after one astounding event, something has changed. Are they about to become something more?


Molly opened the door to her flat, groaning as she removed her trainers and hung up her jacket and purse. It had been a long day at the morgue; two heart attacks, one murder, two suicides, and three drownings. She wanted nothing more but to take a hot bath, flop into bed and sleep until noon. But she couldn't because of his royal arse, Sherlock Holmes. True enough, the former consulting detective lay sprawled on her sofa, his hands forming a little steeple. He was obviously engrossed in a case.

"Hello Sherlock," she sighed as she scurried to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He made a small sound of acknowledgement. She came back and perched at the end of the sofa at his feet.

"Well, intriguing case was it?" she pressed. He opened his eyes and surged upwards knocking Molly off the sofa in the process. Her shoulder hit the edge of the coffee table and she winced as pain flared in her upper arm. She didn't see him looking at her, mouth still open about to start ranting.

"Molly." She looked up at him. He had his hand extended out towards her. "Are you alright?" she blinked and accepted his hand.

"Yeah, fine thanks." It had been three months since she had helped Sherlock fake his death and he had come to live at her flat. In the duration of that time she had grown closer to him. He no longer made cruel comments about her appearance or actions except when he was cranky, and she didn't stutter like a schoolgirl whenever he spoke to her. That Molly Hooper no longer existed. He drew her upwards and onto the couch beside him. He slipped his hand up to her shoulder. She tensed.

"Is your shoulder alright?" he asked her again.

Molly bit her lip. "Yes Sherlock, it's fine," she lied. He removed his hand only to prod her shoulder gently with one, long finger. She winced.

"No, you're not." He replaced his hand and began massaging her shoulder. Molly's insides screamed.

"Sherlock, wha-what are you doing?" She cursed herself for stammering. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers still in motion.

"You're stressed." His fingers moved rhythmically back and forth. "And your shoulder's hurt." Molly let the tension drop and decided to change the subject.

"Sherlock, your case," she pressed. He ignored her. She tried again, deliberately inching away a bit, the tension returned when he inched closer. "Sherlock your case, what was it?" This time he answered.

"A seven, but you're more important." Molly's breathing hitched. Was he really putting her before one of his cases? Especially a seven? What had changed? Was it their conversation back in the morgue? She realized it was so long ago now, she struggled to remember the conversation and the words hit her like an atomic blast:

"_You're wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay." _He had scared her, emerging from the shadows. She remembered his even footsteps as he slowly approached her.

"_Tell me what's wrong."_

"_Molly, I think I'm going to die."_ She had seen it. The true, genuine worry in those eyes. His breathing had changed. Becoming short and ragged. The breaths of a nervous man who knew he was facing Death himself. And there was her, little mousy Molly Hooper. She was his pathologist and nothing more. Why would he turn to her? But she was there, offering her services.

"_What do you need?" _

"_If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?" _That was the most doubt she had ever heard him express over himself. She had swallowed nervously and her confidence grew.

"_What do you need?" _

"_You." _That one word had been haunting her for the last few months. With three letters he had said a million things at once.

"Molly." His deep baritone voice was loud in her ear, pulling her out of her thoughts. She turned to face him and found his face mere inches from hers. She could feel his hot breath on her face. The pain, she realized, had subsided from her shoulder but his hand remained there, fingers poised and still. From their position she could see perfect curve of his lips when he spoke.

"Molly I-," he began. She was spared by the kettle going off.

"Coffee's done," she murmured and rose to get it. He grabbed hold of her wrist before she could walk away and pulled her back down.

"Forget it, it's not important." Molly wriggled out of his grasp and stood once more.

"Let me just…turn the burner off," she insisted. She turned and practically ran to the kitchen. Molly occupied herself by turning the stove top off and placing the kettle on the back burner. She concentrated on keeping her hands steady, they were shaking so much. She stiffened as Sherlock took hold of her wrists and spun her so she was pinned against the counter.

"Molly this is important," he said. She tried to free her wrists but he only tightened his grasp. The only thing she could see was his purple dress shirt.

"Sherlock what- you're scaring me."

"Molly please, let me finish. I need to tell you it's driving me mad." She sighed and refused to meet his eyes.

"Yes?" she was completely unprepared for what he said next.

"Molly Hooper, thank you. Thank you for everything."

'_Is he actually thanking someone?'_ she thought to herself as she listened.

"Thank you for helping me fake my death, and keeping an eye out for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John and yes even Mycroft," he looked a bit sad and cleared his throat. "What I'm trying to say is… Molly Hooper you're amazing and I really think you should wear your hair to the side more often and your lips are neither too big nor too small and neither are your breasts for that matter, and although I may have not meant every compliment I have ever given you, you need to know ninety-eight percent of it was true to my word," he stopped to inhale deeply before splurging onwards. "And over these three months I've come to realize that although we've been friends or colleagues or whatever you wish to refer to us as, it has been completely platonic and I wish for it to be something more than that." He paused, letting it sink in. Molly had a hard time wrapping her mind around that.

'_Was he implying…'_ And as if he had read her thoughts began again. "And yes I am asking you if you wish to be my…girlfriend. I must warn you I will never be a very good boyfriend. I'll occasionally yell chaste remarks at you, ones I might or might not mean. But overall, you enthrall me," he finished his rant with a heavy sigh letting the unbearable burden drop from his shoulders and shatter into a million pieces on the ground. He looked at Molly waiting for her response. She avoided his eyes.

"Molly Hooper," he said. She looked towards him at her name, but not _at_ him. "Look. At. Me," he commanded. Sherlock watched as she slowly raised her eyes until they were level with his.

Molly met those stormy eyes and everything and nothing was said in that one look. He leaned slowly down and brushed her lips gently with his. The butterflies that had a permanent residence in her stomach swarmed wildly, a multitude of colors. He pulled back enough to look at her before kissing her again, more firmly this time. He reached behind her and eased her hair tie out of her hair, letting her glossy locks tumble over her shoulders. She responded and raised her hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer. Molly could feel the hard edge of the countertop digging into her back. She didn't care; this was something straight out of her fantasies.

They broke apart and Molly smiled. She turned and poured two mugs of coffee, mixing in two sugars for him, and cream for herself. She handed the appropriate cup to Sherlock. He gratefully accepted it and took a sip. He grinned, internally admiring how she got it right each and every time. Molly hesitated, but took his hand and led him to the couch where they say down and placed their coffees on the table. The pair sat there in awkward silence before Sherlock turned to look at her. The lamp light caused her hair to give off an unearthly glow, making her blonde hair even brighter than usual. He took her hand in his and she looked over.

"Molly," he murmured.

'_How many times had he said her name tonight?'_ she wondered.

He leaned in and captured her lips with his. She closed her eyes and slowly inched closer until she was flush with him. He pulled her even closer, drawing her into his lap, her legs off to the side. She sighed softly as he deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth open with his. When had her hands made their way into his hair? She wasn't sure. Sherlock groaned as the pathologist's hands tried to untangle themselves from his curls, but accidentally tugged at his hair instead. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled back for much needed air. She gasped slightly as he tilted her chin back and kissed a trail down her throat before returning to her lips. Their coffees sat on the table, long forgotten. She deduced the consulting detective; he tasted of coffee and cigarette smoke.

They broke apart and Molly rose first. She headed into her room, chased Toby out and motioned for Sherlock to follow her. He obliged and shot her cat a glare as Toby hissed at him. The door shut with a quiet thump.

Molly woke up to find a still-sleeping Sherlock with an arm around her. His deep snores rumbled in her ear and his breath stirred her hair. She smiled and remembered his last words to her before she had drifted off,

"_Molly Hooper, you intrigue me."_

She snuggled deeper under the duvet and fell back asleep. And well, Sherlock didn't sleep on the sofa bed for a long time after that.


End file.
